Fear Of Falling
One bright, shiny day in the spring of 1972, I was in a helicopter 4,000 feet above the former Republic of Vietnam. Four thousand feet was normal for cruising, as 2,000 feet was the normal reach of ground fire.
All was well, going according to plan. We were on a normal boring milk run heading into Laos to do a little CIA errand. I may have even been drowsing a bit. Chopper rides were usually boring. Feeling that way was a mistake.
The helicopter was a single engine UH-1 (Huey) model. The engine noise was deafening as usual. Until it wasn’t. As soon as it got quiet, I knew instant terror. One engine. No noise. Bad sign.
For no apparent reason, our single engine simply stopped. Fortunately, the hydraulic system that enabled the pilot controls didn’t. So the pilot was still in control and we didn’t go into a fatal tumble. Problem was, he was now flying a brick.
The glide ratio of an airplane is 12 to 1. At 4,000 feet in a situation like this, you could glide perhaps 48,000 feet, roughly nine miles, to seek a safe landing place.
The glide ratio of a helicopter is roughly one to one. If you look straight down you will see where you will end up.
Straight below us was nothing but unbroken triple-tier jungle. Not optimum for survival.
We plummeted. We screamed various prayers and curses. Not much else could be done.
The sensation of dropping from the sky, let’s say free falling without a parachute from 4,000 feet, far exceeds invigorating. You instantly enter the domain of sudden, certain death.
It felt like we fell for hours, hours of panic and dread. When you are only twenty, it doesn’t take long for your whole life to flash before your eyes. You are in reruns before you know it.
Then, when hope had evaporated, the engine caught. Its blessed roar returned. After a bit of a powered swoop, we were flying again. No one said anything. We ascended to 4,000 feet and continued on our way.
At the end of the day, my partner and I asked the pilot what had happened. He said he had no idea, but we had dropped 2,000 feet in those few, eternal minutes. The mechanic said there was absolutely nothing wrong with the bird. A statement difficult to digest.
My partner and I told the pilot there was no way we were getting back into that machine. Ever. The pilot said that was a good thing, because he wasn’t either. The next day we took off in a different Huey.
I never had the same experience again, but I never again took flying for granted. I was forevermore focused on falling. I now knew that one hiccup could turn a normal day and a routine plan into a roller-coaster ride of horror. Things can go sideways in a heartbeat. A plan is only a plan until it isn’t.
This was originally published as a response, but quite a few people wanted to see it as a stand alone story, so here it is.
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